


Iacta Ālea Est

by Arianne, noahfronsenburg, patrexes



Series: Novæ Bonus Res [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Epistolary, Gen, Lingua Latīna | Latin, Metafiction, Political Banter as Foreplay, Power Imbalance, Pre-Relationship, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfronsenburg/pseuds/noahfronsenburg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: At last the pieces were in place. Now Alphinaud aan Leveilleur simply needed to die.





	Iacta Ālea Est

**Author's Note:**

> A note to the reader: This digital edition of _Novæ Bonus Res_ makes use of the [[Junicode](http://junicode.sourceforge.net/)] font as well as specialized formatting; please double-check that your reader source is compatible with these requirements before reading on.
> 
>  _Iacta ālea est_ (“The die is cast”) is a Garlean phrase attributed by Suo sas Antonius to Gaius iyl Bælsar on 10S 1AM, 1553 6AE as he led his army across the Ghimlyt Dark on the border of Ilsabard and Aldenard. With this step, he began the conquering of Ala Mhigo. The phrase, either in the original Garlean or in translation, is used in many languages to indicate that events have passed a point of no return.

 

# NOVÆ BONVS RES

A NOVEL BY [DADAVIS DAVIS](/users/dadavisdavis/profile)

Inter hæc Līviam Iūnius duxit pūpillam, seniōrem fīliam Marcī Iūniōris, post mortem patris et comparī sē aluit quoadusque legione optiōnī inībit. Coniugī Midān nan Garlondēn superstes fuit, ex hac tulit Cidolfum. Midān quidem nōndum cōnsulem Eorzeæ factus est āmisīt, et post hæc nōn dūxit uxōrem ex omegīs, dissimilis tot alphæ eō tempore. Post annexātiōnem Eorzeæ incēperat in contubernium habuitque A. Leveilleurem, peregrīnum lībertum et nepōtem archōntis Louisoicis ex Sharlayan, quīcum līberōs sunt sihi legitimāvit, etiam prīnceps senātūs pæne iūstī uxōris præter eōmegam locō.

Meanwhile [Bælsar] took as his ward Livia Junius, elder daughter of Marcus Junius, after her father’s death, and raised her as his equal[1] until such time as she entered the legions as an aide-de-camp. He outlived his partner Midas nan Garlond, by whom he had one child, Cidolfus. He in fact lost Midas before becoming Consul of Eorzea, and afterward did not take an omega to wife, unlike many alphas of his time. After the annexation of Eorzea he lived with[2] A. Leveilleur, free peregrinus and grandchild of the Sharlayan Archon Louisoix, later acknowledging their children as legitimate; and even after he became Princeps Senatus he held her[3] place almost as that of a lawful wife more than bonded Omega.

* * *

— Suo sas Antonius, _De vita Lēgātorum, vol. II_ ,  
trans. M. Mako.

 

 

 

“For what it is worth,” Næl said, knowing the answer was none but trying damn well anyway, “I would once more have you know I find this plan of yours, while certainly as well-constructed as any, both foolhardy and unnecessarily self-destructive.”

“You gave your own flesh and blood as an offering to a haunted moon,” Alphinaud aan Leveilleur reminded the woman, former Legatus of the VIIth Legion and current overprotective hand-wringer, no heat to the words.

Næl inhaled. Exhaled. “Be that as it may—”

“What else would you have me do?” Alphinaud interrupted her, setting aside the coat he was repairing, needle midway through a stitch, so that he might gesticulate. “What else _can_ I do? I am neither warrior nor spy, my ætherial mastery useless outside of combat that none among the Scions’ number will allow me to enter as they think me some kind of eternal _child—”_ and this, _this_ was something he would never let down, not when his sister, his _identical twin_ [4], was victim to the same unfortunate genetics he was so incessantly infantilized for and yet was trusted as a point-of-contact for the revolutionaries from her post in, of all things, _the XIV th Legion_, wherein she reported directly to Livia sas Junius, Tribunus Angusticlavius.

And yet, in the same breath Alphinaud was somehow too young, too _fragile_ to be allowed near anything more dangerous than _maps_. It rankled. “I am the only soul among us with even the slightest chance at achieving this lofty goal of ours, never mind have any hope to come out from the proceedings still drawing breath. You _know_ this, Næl; you’ve argued as much yourself.”

“Yes,” Næl agreed, lips pursed. “This is true. I simply dislike it. Gaius van Bælsar is no one I want within an arm’s length of you, irrespective of circumstance.”

“Well,” Alphinaud said, “should it alleviate any lingering concerns, I shan’t be within his reach for but longer than a moment.” He picked up his work once more, despite its likely futility—odds were good he would never again need a winter coat. But he needed _something_ to do with his hands, something to focus on which was not these proceedings.

Næl scoffed a laugh. “See to it that is so,” she said, “for I will not forgive you should you be lost.” She paused, and then, in a voice more tender, added, “And moreover your sister would never forgive me for allowing it.”

“There is,” Alphinaud said quietly, “little to lose.”

In his lap sat his winter coat, once more torn, once more patched. Beside him lay _Adelphoi_ , his grandfather’s final gift glamoured to appear as nothing so much as a battered notebook. Across the room, on the desk he had once shared with Alisaie, were the sum of his personal effects: seven journals, the final left with its mark upon the penultimate page; two inkwells and their respective pens; the best of his remaining clothes, to be redistributed to the children of Idyllshire should he fail; a handful of gil; his use-worn copies of Amon’s _Xandess_ and _Allagia_ , the only books he had ever himself owned.

On the morrow, he would gird himself in a shield of æther and hurl himself upon the gates of the Heaven of Lightning.

At last the pieces were in place. Now Alphinaud aan Leveilleur simply needed to die.

 

 

 

Excerpt from Hehemena Zozomena’s _Sharlayan Delenda Est, i.e., being some thoughts on the nature of Truth in the case of the White Raven and Dalamud’s fall:_

The story of the Seventh Umbral Calamity is this: when Dalamud finished its descent, death was everywhere; Louisoix Leveilleur lying an innocent martyr at the feet of enemies he gave his life to protect; the remnants of the Tempered VIIth grinning through gunblade smoke at the other victims sprawled in the collapsing gutters, shouldering their weapons and turning toward the red sky; Næl ever-more laughing as she brought down the Lesser Moon, _Sharlayan delenda est_ —‘Sharlayan must be destroyed’—on her lips.[5]

The truth is a more complicated matter (as the Calamity left no known survivors) but history has shown us time and again that _truth_ rarely factors into its making. On 9S 6UM, 1562, Dalamud fell from the sky, obliterating Næl van Darnus and Louisoix Leveilleur—and immortalizing them in the same breath. Their shadows loom long over the Seventh Umbral Era, the White Raven a horror story; Leveilleur and his kin a beacon of salvation.

Perhaps, as has been put forward by scholars, van Darnus was invented to make Gaius iyl Bælsar seem a more palatable dictator. Perhaps Louisoix never fed his own life-force into a spell meant to send friend and foe alike into the relative safety of the Lifestream, his death instead coming at the end of a Garlean blade like so many others’ that day.

But _history_ is not the same thing as _truth_. Whatever truly happened, the events in the Northern Empty—now uncomfortably true to its name—spurred the Ul’dahn Syndicate to look upon Gaius van Bælsar and the XIVth, poised as they were for invasion, with new eyes, and become the first of the Eorzean city-states to sue for peace. The rest soon followed.

The story of the Seventh Umbral Era began in battle, with three veterans devoted to their cause. One lost; one died; one gained an empire.

* * *

 

 

All refugee camps had three things alike: squalor, grief, and rage. What individuated them was the ratio.

As Legatus of the XIVth Imperial Legion, Gaius van Bælsar had observed enough of such camps to last the better part of two lifetimes, and consequently been inured to such pity, in all its manifold forms.

Idyllshire was less a refugee camp and more a small town, albeit a poor one, which had been granted leave to be built upon the remaining structures that had survived in the Dravanian Hinterlands after the fall of Dalamud. There was no love lost for the XIVth (nor its Legatus) in Idyllshire.

And still, every year, the city had money dedicated to its rebuilding—a budget that was less at every visit, drained in conflict with the League of Lost Bastards and the Ishgardian Front. Garlemald had little interest in war reparations; there were better things to do with treasury gil than continue to pour yet more money into a continent that had supposedly been conquered fifteen years before.

This inspection was of much the same stock as previous. The Legatus arrived with the entirety of the I and II Maniples on his coattails: a number of soldiers more like to make a riot than stop one, so beaten were the remnants of the Motherland. He was met by Master Matoya, one of the few remaining Archons, and suffered through her castigation in lieu of Næl, whose well-timed death had removed her as a potential target of social ire.

He was subjected to a “tour”, which meant being led in whatever his guides deemed the most circuitous route possible through the Hinterlands, an all-day affair that was, as always, designed in such a way as to make it nigh-impossible for someone in full uniform to go about doing anything. By the end, his coat was caked in things far worse than mud until it was colored closer to brown than red, the silt trapped in the fine cracks of his armor drying as dust, pale against the black metal.

The Centurios who had drawn the short straw to serve as his honor guard were nearly mutinous by lunch. “This,” he admonished them, “is why the Legions draw lots.” The Maniples of the VIIth and the XIVth had no responsibility to be in attendance at all inspections; the unlucky were the only ones required to travel to Idyllshire in force.

The Legatus did have such responsibility. And attend he did, every year. And every year, when the Black Wolf went hunting, New Sharlayan laid out the traps, knowing their bones were too lean to be worth the gnawing.

 

 

 

By mid-afternoon the sun had finally burned off the early-morning mist. They had at last reached the Arkhitekton, and, as every year, the Legatus stood at parade rest and was presented with a bevy of complaints from the ætheryte scholars. As every year, his reply was: “Garlemald is not in the habit of giving handouts. What little gil can be further invested in Idyllshire at the present time has already been earmarked for education subsidies as per Master Matoya’s request.

“The unaspected crystals in Mor Dhona remain, _as always_ , free for Sharlayan use under the strictures of the settlement treaty.” Idyllshire refused to make use of that particular aspect of the settlement treaty, for reasons which yet remained wholly unclear to the Legatus. “In addition, the Seedseers are open to the prospect of using Shroud crystals, if they are appropriate. Should it be amicable, the XIVth will provide transport both to and from for any researchers, along with any crystals obtained in such an effort.”

When Professor Mace began to launch into a long-winded tirade rather than take advantage of the kindness of the realm, van Bælsar did the one thing he had wished to do all day: he ignored the man completely, turned, and left.

Outside, a heavy late-afternoon humidity had rolled off the Thaliak, the air so dense it was oppressive even through the filter of his helmet.

The Thaliak’s muggy air had brought another weight as well, for the Arkhitekton was surrounded by a silent, thronging crowd. Four people deep at even its thinnest, it was made up of what seemed to be nearly all of Idyllshire’s population, making a living wall. They had blocked the route back to the road, and the threat hardly needed to be stated for it to be clear.

Even with the Maniples stationed nearby, the Legatus and his honor guard were surrounded. Three against a mob, regardless of skill—

There were no weapons visible.

Yet.

Van Bælsar folded his arms, the sound of the steel of his armor rattling loud amidst the silence. Heavy between his shoulder blades, _Heirsbane_ caught the light. At the nearer edges of the crowd, the first few anxious spectators began to try to peel away at the promised threat, found themselves trapped by the crush. There was no way out for anyone: not the would-be mob, nor either their would-be target.

The strain grew until it was as close to combusting as was raw ceruleum. Then, from amidst that strange, heavy quietude, a clear voice rang out. “Quō ūsque tandem abūtere, Bælsar, patientia nostra?” _How long, o Bælsar, will you abuse our patience?_

When the Legatus replied, voice modulated and raised by his helmet, it hushed the crowd. “Who amongst you spoke?” The mob reacted by shifting restlessly, their fear palpable—but none dared risk incriminating themselves. “I would see your face ere I take such insult, else you’d rather be found by force.”

He did not draw steel.

 _Yet_.

From within the crowd—growing denser by the minute, more Sharlayans drawn by the spectacle, shoving past the soldiers, who were forming ranks—pushed a boy, no higher than his hip. Beside him, one Centurio took a half-step forward. Across the crowd, the men of the Maniples began reaching for weapons, watching their officers, antsy and nervous beside him.

The Legatus checked it, lifting one hand palm-open: _halt_. The XIVth fell to attention, hands off their weapons. The people of New Sharlayan flattened, hushed with terror.

One clenched fist was all that now stood between these innocents and a massacre. None dared move.

None, that was, except the boy, who did not so much as flinch. He stood now less than a blade’s-length from the Legatus, stared up at him with a look of insubordination upon his narrow face. Had he wished to, but a single move could have drawn _Heirsbane_ and cut the child down.

Upon closer inspection, however, it became clear the boy was _not_ a child. Dressed in clothes that had once been serviceable but were now closer to patchwork than not, what had seemed at first an Elezen of less than an epoch was a young man who, if he was not much mistaken, bore Lalafellin blood, his stature and proportions an odd mix of both races’ adult features[6]. The boy stood up as tall as his frame allowed, his blue eyes blade-sharp with the rage that he clutched to his chest, shoulders squared with a determination born of futility—in sum, not so unlike Gaius van Bælsar had himself been at a similar age.

Determined, yes, but _foolish_. The way of all young alphas with something to prove.

“You have something to say, boy?”

“Words to repay impotent words,” the young man said coldly, in Low Eorzean so all who listened could understand. “It is because of your negligence that we lost our homeland, and we are now to understand you have the gall to come into our homes to tell us that we are not _industrious_ enough?”

Beneath his helmet, Gaius van Bælsar raised his eyebrows.

Voice pitched too soft to be picked up by anything more than the inner comm of their helmets, one Centurio whispered, “Sir, should I—”

“No.” She made a questioning noise. “Let the boy speak.” He was—intrigued. Against his better judgment. There was a curious _intensity_ about this boy, and it had caught his eye. Whatever would he do next?

“How dare you,” the boy continued, his voice pitched as an orator’s, loud enough for everyone to hear. He lifted a dirty hand, gesturing around to the dilapidation of Idyllshire. “Sharlayan did not _ask_ for this—this was done to us _because of you_. If Garlemald believes so fervently that Sharlayan’s dispossessed should reap only the fruits of their labors, you’d be better served by giving us seeds to plant rather than _corpses_.”

It was a pretty speech—albeit hardly the words of a would-be child. The boy’s disguise was plausible deniability of adulthood, but the face and manner were _not_ , and Gaius could recognize the equal-parts brilliance and conceit of alpha adulthood when he saw it. Where his hand was still held to _halt_ , he lowered it, nodded to gesture the Centurio forward.

As he had suspected, the boy did not even attempt to run. He stayed painfully still, a _studied_ stillness—self-possessed of two parts rage and one part bull-headedness, his wrist held above his head to keep him from darting away, the young man glared back at him as if saying, _try me_.

Certainly.

“Hic tōtus fuit?” _Are you wholly finished?_ The boy’s Garlean had been fluid, spoken with a surety that belied rote memorization, and he bristled at the Legatus’ disdain.

Gaius never had an opportunity to meet Archon Louisoix, the man by whose intervention even some small part of Sharlayan had survived, but he had seen portraits. The Sharlayan Resistance, too, was known to him, and he would have been a poor Legatus indeed to not recognize the foremost among their number on sight.

And, moreover, a poor _father_ , not to recognize the twin of his daughter’s lover.[7]

“This would-be child who stands before you, speaking as if a boy,” he began, the young man glaring at him, _loathing_ writ plain on his curled upper lip, “is descended on his father’s side from the Archon Louisoix, by whose loss was Eorzea saved, as near to royalty as your late isle could possess.” All among their number, of course, knew this. Alphinaud aan Leveilleur—for it indeed was he—did not react beyond a slight widening of his _very_ blue eyes, blue enough Gaius found his own gaze drawn back to them every time he looked away. “And yet, he would crawl amongst you in rags claiming innocence through insult, when by rights he should _rule_ , not beg freedom in death. Would he could cry mercy he no doubt would—”

Aan Leveilleur, twisting in the grip of his captor, spat at Gaius’ feet. “Scī, lēgāte—eikonem factus esset ā garleā ipsum efficiet ruīnæ tuum,” he prophesied, fury writ in the wrinkle of his fair brow, in the scowl twisting his soft lips. _Know this, Legatus—‘tis an Eikon created by none other than Garlemald itself which will bring about your ruin._

For a moment, Gaius van Bælsar—a man not-oft surprised—found himself shocked to silence. He stared at the boy; burst into a bark of laughter.

No; perhaps he was _wrong_. Alphinaud aan Leveilleur would not cry mercy at the tip of a blade. He would bite any hand that mistakenly offered succor.

Gaius liked that in a man. He could understand the desire to spurn proffered grace.

“A mind so untarnished lays wasted in this squalid gutter.” The boy, who had spat at him once already, used his free hand to make a particularly rude gesture—in punishment, had that wrist grabbed up as well. Even with both narrow wrists caught in the Centurio’s hand, she had no difficulty keeping his arms above his head. “Boy, should you rather be the first man here than the second man in Garlemald you have earned that chance, for in revolution fortune will cast events of importance in the guise of the most trivial causes. If you and yours can abide men who are more willing to volunteer to die than to endure pain with patience, I call upon you to cross that bridge and decide the matter with arms.”

Alphinaud aan Leveilleur went very still. He took in a quick, sharp breath, as if prepared, readying for something. Marshalling himself, no doubt, for a long-awaited blow to fall.

But the Legatus did not draw _Heirsbane_. Instead, he gestured to the two Centurios to follow, walked to the edge of the crowd, which parted before him with the silent terror of cattle broken for slaughter. He was familiar with the tactic aan Leveilleur had just so masterfully displayed: as Legatus of the XIVth he had, after all, once used a not-so-dissimilar method to take Ala Mhigo.

Credit where credit was due; ‘twas well-crafted politics, whoever had convinced the boy into it. He could not have written a finer smear campaign himself: the Black Wolf, Garlemald’s bloodthirsty hound, cutting down an unarmed child with a blade that had gained its name for the very act of filicide-by-proxy.

That was how you started revolutions: the body of a bright-eyed innocent with a gilded future, struck down for honesty spoken plain upon his lips. A child, the grandson of their _last_ martyr, unarmed and unarmored, murdered and left to rot in the street.

From where he was still standing, the boy said, “Quid est, Bælsar?”

Gaius van Bælsar turned to look, found Alphinaud aan Leveilleur _smirking_ at him, still held in place. _Cocky brat_. “Ecquid attendis, ecquid animadvertis hōrum silentium?” _Do you not attend these people, do you pay no mind to their silence?_

This boy was _wasted_ in such poor guise, his brilliance shining out through it, maturity beyond his tender years. He had the kind of charisma that, long ago, had drawn Gaius to Solus, an alpha above alphas—the kind of inexorable force of will that could make men go, unquestioning, to their graves. The sort of cruel arrogance that was utterly at peace with his potential in the world. In another scene, he would have commended the boy for it.

Yet—

In this, van Bælsar weighed his options; chose the foolish one. “Puerum aufer,” he ordered to his Centurio. _Take the boy away._ At once, aan Leveilleur’s demeanor changed, eyes growing wide with true fear for the first time that afternoon. He attempted immediately to escape his captor, but his narrow wrists were well-trapped and his underfed body had no strength in it. The boy dug in his heels, but he was barefoot, the dirt below him soft with water, and all that happened was he slid forward, feet scoring marks into the mud.

Not wont to deal with such resistance, the Centurio grasped aan Leveilleur under the armpits and tossed him over her shoulder. Immediately, the boy began to thrash in her hold, wriggling like some kind of scalekin, hissing and spitting with impotent rage as he tried to slide free of her grasp. The Centurio began to walk away, the Maniples forming up around her, van Bælsar standing at their head, facing the crowd.

All Sharlayan watched, their silence pregnant with anticipation as the Legatus had their would-be revolutionary detained without arrest, yelling to be let down, let go immediately, how _dare_ they. Gaius barely glanced after him, not willing to turn his back on any civilians until the boy was out of earshot, knowing when retreat was warranted. The slightest waver could set this fuse alight.

As if to prove him right, aan Leveilleur shouted, loud as he could, voice cracking: “Ipsum omnia sīs?”[8]

And all hells broke loose.

 

 

 

_4 th Umbral Moune, 14th Sun, 16 7UE:_

I oft find myſelf vvondryng hůat it maye haue bene þt ourre grandfaþr vvas þynċyng, þe nyte before D. fell. Cnoueyng þt, comme þe Sunriſe, ħ vvulde yþr ſtop þe deſsent ore die trieyng, ⁊ hůat vve myte remembr of him after his deþ—hůat vve myte _foreget_. Did ħ vvorrie vve vvulde find glorie in his graue ⁊ seke to emulayt his greteſt tryumf—his greteſt faylure?

VVe ſƚ neuer cnoue, of corſe. VVe can onlie carrie þe boċs ħ left to us ⁊ vvondr vvho vve myte haue bene had ħ ſuruiued. I feer euene ourre Deare Siſter is a payl ymitacyon, fore all þe cayr ſhe bryngs us boþ. Þr is to be noe replacyng ſuch a manne. And, I admitt, þr ſƚ be noe replacyng _me_ , ſhulde all goe aůrrie—nore, to ſpeċe vvt all honeſtie, ſhulde all goe aċordyng to plan. If I die on þe morroue, cnoue it is entyrlie laċyng regretts, fore you arre þe beſt ⁊ bryteſt of ourre hopes ⁊ poſsibilities, alreadie ſtandyng far exalted aboue mie oune ſtacion alſoe.

I cnoue you vvyl nyþr agree nore forgiue me. I find I cannot blaym you fore it. And ſoe cnouyng, ſhulde þe Tůelue dayn I periſh in þe vndrtayċyng of þiss fooles errand (as you haue ſoe naymed it), þen, aċept from me þiss fynal letter: mie loue, ſiſter, is yrs euere vnto eternytie ⁊ I do noþyng in vvch you do not alſoe vvalc vvtin me. I am ſorrie, Aliſaie. I am ſoe ſorrie.

Blaym onlie me, dear ſiſter, fore I am ħ þt muſt tayċ it ſqare vpon mie ſholders—I ⁊ non oþr.

Alf.

_4 th Umbral Moon, 14th Sun, 16 7UE:_

I oft find myself wondering what it may have been that our grandfather was thinking, the night before Dalamud fell. Knowing that, come the Sunrise, he would either stop the descent or die trying, and what we might remember of him after his death—what we might _forget_. Did he worry we would find glory in his grave and seek to emulate his greatest triumph—his greatest failure?

We shall never know, of course. We can only carry the books he left us and wonder who we might have been had he survived. I fear even our Dear Sister[9] is a pale imitation, for all the care she brings us both. There is to be no replacing such a man. And, I admit, there shall be no replacing _me_ , should all go awry—nor, to speak with honesty, should all go according to plan. If I die on the morrow, know it is entirely lacking regrets, for you are the best and brightest of our hopes and possibilities, already standing far exalted above my own station also.

I know you will neither agree nor forgive me. I find I cannot blame you for it. And so knowing, should the Twelve deign I perish in the undertaking of this fool’s errand (as you have so named it), then, accept from me this final letter: my love, sister, is yours ever unto eternity, and I do nothing in which you do not also walk within me. I am sorry, Alisaie. I am so sorry.

Blame only me, dear sister, for I am he that must take it square upon my shoulders—I, and none other.

Alf.[10]

* * *

— Final entry in vol. VII, last among _The  
Collected Journals of A. aan Leveilleur_.

 

 

[1] Suo sas Antonius' original verbiage—'compar'—means both 'equal' and 'sex partner' — likely an intentional pun, given what is known of their relationship.  
[2] Mako shows her usual tactfulness in translating the phrase 'contubernium habuitque', meaning more literally 'wed [A.L.] in the way of slaves and kept [her]', as 'lived with'.  
[3] Primary texts vary on their gendering of A.L., but the standard practice in ancient Garlemald when dealing with those cultures which divided themselves by aspect over gender was to use the feminine for omegas.  
[4] Alisaie sas Leveilleur's military record has her birthdate as 5S 1AM, 1559 6AE, but the A. aan Leveilleur journals refer more than once to her shared birthday with its author, born circa 1562. Should Alisaie have lied about her age with her enlistment, she would hardly have been the first.  
[5] Næl seems to have considered 'Sharlayan delenda est' her personal motto, and her usage of it was so frequent (even including it after her signature as S.D.E.) that at the time of her death her contemporaries had mocked it ab adsurdum. It was not until the late Post-Imperial period that S.D.E. once more became a threat.  
[6] Alisaie sas Leveilleur's military record names her as a Lalafell, where the siblings' names are Elezen—as their grandfather was. With the discovery of A.L.'s private journals, some scholars have pointed to Fetal Ceruleum Syndrome as a complicating factor in their physicalities.  
[7] When precisely Livia van Junius and Alisaie sas Leveilleur began their relationship is lost to history, but Alisaie—then Tesserarius to Livia's Tribunus Angusticlavius—had by the time of the 4UM Revolution served beneath her for two years.  
[8] This famous quote—and the only one incontestably attributed to A. aan Leveilleur—is pregnant with intricate meaning, and has been translated as everything from 'You would end this?' to 'You want me to stop?' In its modern usage, it is a (particularly rude) dare.  
[9] No mention is made in any primary source of the Leveilleur twins having an elder sibling, so the identity of the person mentioned by A. aan L. here remains unknown.  
[10] Many editions have 'Als.' due to similarity between the F and medial S in the writer's hand, but the same hand's consistent avoidance of the medial S in the terminal position makes F more likely, despite the commonplace expansion to 'Alsinau'.

**Author's Note:**

> Article: **_The Black Wolf’s Knot Single?_**
>
>> In a recent reordering of the Old-Imperial Library in Garlemald, a small box of handwritten journals labelled “A.L. S. ROSA” was discovered, and the contents are unbelievable—and so salacious much of it can’t be put to print. **[Keep Reading]**
> 
> * * *
> 
> User: _thaliaksbelt_ 👎0 👍4.3k
>
>> Okay. Listen.
>> 
>> I have heard _so much_ about this book. I read at least five articles about it after the A.L. journals were discovered.
>> 
>> And I am _livid_. Livid, I tell you.
>> 
>> Why? Because every single one of those articles _completely neglected_ to mention that Næl van Darnus is a major character and her subplot consists—apropos of nothing—entirely of being an overprotective big sibling to the Leveilleurs and also a _fucking dragon lady_.
>> 
>> Why did nobody tell me about this? I demand to know why I wasn't told about this. Why isn't she on the goddamn cover? Why isn't there a sequel? Is there a sequel? I never knew how much I needed this in my life.
> 
> User: _shitty_history_mods_ 👎33 👍0
>
>> every1 kept telling me this book was so good but i had to put it down on the first page. i can believe a whole lot of stuff but nael van darnus being a ten fulm tall immortal tittydragon who came back from the afterlife to be sharlayan's big good is a little much, lol. history doesnt work like that sry :(
> 
> Reply@user:shitty_history_mods:  
> User: _nælvandarnusismymom_ 👎0 👍14
>
>> hey op change your fucking url
> 
> * * *
> 
> Othard Pop-Culture Association Conference (OPCAC) Symposium Titled “Erotic History”:
> 
>   * Sleuthing The Sexy Way: How Dadavis Davis Used Pornography To Solve A Historical Paradox
>   * _The Private Journals of A.L._ : Reevaluating The Purpose Of Pornography In Educational Literature
>   * Homosexuality In Ancient Garlemald: A Rebuttal To A. Foucald and _Modern Homosocial Relationships In Aspect Culture_
>   * Making Colonization Sexy Again: Should We Really Be Happy About That?
>   * Erotic Portraiture and the Misappelation of Identity
>   * Erotic Portraiture and the Self: Self-Portraits in Post-Imperial Garlemald
>   * The Barren Winter: Regula van Hydrus and the Sexuality of Allag
>   * “ _Daddy, It Hurts_ ”: The Bælsar Family Behind Closed Doors
> 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [in its fullness over me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232227) by [Arianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne)




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